


one way of knowing

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isco and Alvaro, after the second leg of the semi finals match between Real and Juve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one way of knowing

 

 Isco doesn't do well after losing matches. It's a little like stating the obvious- _noone_ does well after losing a match, not even, hypothetically, players in teams that were used to losing, but Isco's particularly terrible. They lose to Juve and they crash out of the semis and _Alvaro_ scored the goal that doomed them, of course he did, and Isco is terrible at handling the loss. It sits in his stomach like cold fries or a lump of lard, indigestible, giving him a headache and a stomachache on top of the bitter feelings of failure.

He works out for an hour even though his legs tremble, already beyond exhausted from the match. He swims 10 laps in his pool, slowly, then stays underwater till his lungs ache and the surface gets blurry and light, bubbles escaping his mouth rising above him. Theres a particular relief to scrambling up to the air, Isco gasping and crawling up the ladder to lie, bone weary, on the side of the pool. Messi trots over, nosing at his hand, and Isco sighs, drags his dog closer and wraps his arms around him. Messi was a great dog to suffer Isco's cold, wet hands. The sky above them was lit with a myriad pinprick of stars, remote and chilling.

Isco's toweling his hair dry when the doorbell rings. Isco knows, though he's turned off his phone immediately upon reaching home, who it would be.

He pulls open the door and Alvaro's there, of fucking course. The man couldn't take a hint if it hit him in the face. Messi pokes his nose around Isco's leg, ears slightly perked as if he knew who was there.

Isco stares at Alvaro for a bit, then sighs and opens the door wider to let him in.

“Hi.” Alvaro says to Messi, immediately squatting down to be on eye level with the dog. They stare at each other for a beat, and then Messi licks Alvaro's nose. Alvaro chuckles and rubs Messi's head, lets out a surprised and delighted “Oof!” as Messi bowls him over and proceeds to stand on his chest to lick his face.

“You don't want to do that.” Isco says, closing the door and folding his arms.

“Why?” Alvaro says from the floor, still ruffling Messi's ears. His chin had dog saliva all over it.

“He puked in the guest bedroom. And then he ateit.” Isco says, heading to the living room. He hears Alvaro scramble upright hurriedly and- “No Messi stop it, don't-! Stop licking me god-”

Isco might have snorted to himself, but he didn't think Alvaro heard.

 

-

 

 

They sit around playing FIFA, and Alvaro doesn't explain why he's there. Isco doesn't ask either. The FIFA gets heated for no reason, Isco clutching his controller, white knuckled with concentration as he tackles Rooney on screen and then shoots. He scores, and Alvaro makes a small deflated noise and glances at him, but Isco keeps playing.

The scoreline was 5-1 in the end and Isco shrugs as he throws his controller down.

“Congrats.” Alvaro offers.

“It's a game, Morata.” Isco says, scathing. He feels slightly bad about snapping, almost immediately, but Alvaro doesn't say anything. Isco chances a look at him and Alvaro's looking down at his hands, moody. Isco wants to roll his eyes but he's been doing that so often lately he feels they would get stuck that way.

“Oh, poor me, I scored the winning goal for my team in the champions league semifinal! I'll be playing in the finals for the second year running.” Isco says, voice pitched high in sarcasm. “I feel terrible for you.”

Alvaro groans and buries his face in a couch cushion.

Isco throws another one at him. “Will you just smile at least. You're happy. Go celebrate with Juve, they won't expect you to act miserable.”

Alvaro says something in to the cushion. Isco repeats his mumbles back to him in a baby voice, mockingly, until Alvaro lifts his head with a sigh and says, “I _am_ miserable. It's not an act.”

Isco stops and looks at him. “Oh come on.”

He shifts until he's sitting next to Alvaro, puts a hand on his back. Alvaro sighs again, blindly reaches a hand out to Isco's knee, so Isco keeps his hand between Alvaro's shoulder blades, feeling his warmth through the thin cotton of his shirt.

 

They sit like that for a while until Isco says, 'I'm going to take a shower.' Alvaro looks at him in disbelief, something like a question in his eyes.

Isco says, a hint of a challenge in his tone, “What?”

Alvaro just shrugs and moves away, stretching out on the couch. Isco swallows back something that tastes a lot like disappointment, and makes his way to the bathroom.

 

-

 

Isco's thinking about Alvaro in the shower, which isn't- which wasn't- it wasn't anything new. Isco thinking about Alvaro usually led to Isco jerking off while thinking about Alvaro, nothing new, not unexpected, same old. Alvaro's dark eyes and open face, the shape of his mouth and the _taste_ of his mouth, the way he looked in Isco's jersey, his big, warm hands-

Isco jumps and turns around because Alvaro was banging on the glass of his shower stall.

“What?” Isco says, sticking his head out, blinking water from his eyes. He holds the door open, not bothering with modesty. Alvaro's blushing though, looking everywhere but at Isco. His ears flush a dull red. Isco was glad, since his face must have been exactly the same.

“Where'd you put the tv remote?” Alvaro says. Isco rolls his eyes at him.

“I can't believe you're asking me this while I'm in the fucking shower, Morata.” Isco says and ducks back in to the spray.

Alvaro shrugs and turns away, tapping a hand on the sink. Isco had left the door open. He peeks through the veil of water at Alvaro, who's staring at his own reflection in the mirror and tugging his hair at the back so it stuck up a little. Isco nearly snorts, because he knew Alvaro thought it looked rakish, as opposed to what it really did, which was make him look even younger.

Isco closes his eyes and stands in the spray for a bit, trying not to think about Alvaro, until he hears, “Isco?” in Alvaro's uncertain voice.

He opens his eyes, ready to complain about Alvaro's sense of propriety in other people's showering habits, but Alvaro was hovering by the door of the shower stall. His expression was strange, like he was swallowing back something he was about to say, and-

“What?” Isco asks instead, half afraid. He reaches behind him to turn off the tap.

When the water stopped, Alvaro looked like he'd made up his mind. He surges forward, pushes Isco against the wall and kisses him, mouth open and hungry. Isco makes a surprised noise, but it was nothing new. This was nothing new, Alvaro's hands splayed against his chest and holding his jaw, his hips pressing Isco hard against the cool tiles. Isco's happy. He's happy to grind up against Alvaro, grope his ass and draw out little whimpers from Alvaro's mouth.

Alvaro leans back, breaking their kiss, but they're still tangled together, albeit vertically. He mumbles something that might have been _fucking finally._

“You're wearing too much.” Isco says. Alvaro laughs and buries his face in Isco's neck, shoulders shaking.

“Fine.” Alvaro says, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the floor. “It's wet anyway.” He says, defensive, when Isco raises his eyebrows.

“Well you might as well. Take a shower. Then.” Isco says, losing bits of his thought as he stares at the flat plane of Alvaro's stomach, the groove of his hips. Alvaro smirks and steps out of his jeans, kicks them out of the stall.

“Might as well.” He says, and Isco groans, reaching out to him helplessly. If he didn't have his hands on Alvaro _right this second_ he'd probably spontaneously combust out of lust. Or frustration, goddamn Alvaro's lopsided smirk. But Alvaro brushes them aside and drops to his knees on the wet tiles. He grins up at Isco, all open and trusting and _here,_ all Isco's to have, and leans in to bite a mark on to the inside of Isco's thigh. Isco's head hits the wall with a thud and he's biting on the back of his hand to stifle whatever embarrassing sound he's making.

“Might as-” He tries to say again, like a bad parrot, but that particular sentence just ends up in a moan, his hands moving to tangle in Alvaro's hair.

 

-

 

It's better than the first time they fucked, if Isco was going to be honest. Mostly because they weren't drunk, this time, partly because Isco's been dreaming about it every waking (and sleeping) moment since they last did, anticipation and suppressed lust practically ensuring great sex on any account.

“I kept your jersey and jerk off holding it sometimes.” Alvaro says after with Isco's head on his chest.

Isco says without missing a beat, “I jerk off to the picture of you in my jersey sometimes.” Messi was lying in the bed with them, having whined enough for Isco to get up and let him in to the bedroom. Isco rearranges Messi's paws on his chest absently.

Alvaro laughs, Isco feeling it in the reverberations in his neck. He tips his head back to look at Alvaro, whose hand comes up and cups Isco's face and draws him in closer for a kiss.

“So.” Alvaro says, after they break apart, breathless again. He attempts seriousness, but a grin breaks out on his face.

“So.” Isco says back, and- “I think we better lock Messi out again.”

Alvaro laughs and gets up, nudges Messi off the bed and leads him out of the room with promises of dog treats in the kitchen.

Isco settles and grabs his phone absently, turning it on for the first time since he got home. He scrolls through instagram, more bored then with any intention. He goes to Alvaro's profile, wondering if he could find any pictures to tease him about.

Alvaro's gallery had the standard slew of footballing pictures, and there were also a couple others that made Isco feel- they feel like a jackknife in his heart, really. Fernando Llorente, and his arm around Alvaro, that charming grin and his perfect hair and chiseled jawline. The way their heads leaned together, dark and light, Llorente's hand curled around Alvaro's shoulder.

Isco tosses the phone at Alvaro when he comes back. The mood might as well be dead for all Isco feels right now.

Alvaro frowns, uncertain. He says, “What's wrong?” And Isco has no idea what's wrong. Part of him wants to jump Alvaro's bones and carry on like nothing had happened, but most of him wanted to kick Alvaro out and get massively drunk with only Messi for company.

“Why didn't you celebrate with Juve today?” Isco says instead.

“I didn't want to. I wanted to see you.” Alvaro says.

“I'm sure Llorente understood.” Isco says, and he would swallow the words back if he could, but.

“What?” Alvaro says, confused. “They all know. It's not actually a secret-” He blushes, and stops.

“So will you celebrate if you win the final? Will you fuck him like we did after La Decima?” Isco says, throwing everything to the wind and letting his bitterness out. He no longer cared. He cared far too much.

Alvaro's mouth opens comically, but he doesn't say anything, like Isco's struck him dumb with his words. His ears were tinged pink and he looked angry and helpless, hands clenching in to fists and unclenching again by his side.

“What am I to you?” Alvaro says, finally.

“What?” Isco says reflexively. He says it again, disbelieving, “What?”

“Just- What is all this? To you?” Alvaro makes a gesture at the space between them, like he was trying to encompass everything they were- his clothes crumpled in the bathroom, the teethmarks on Isco's inner thigh, the way the red left by Isco's fingers still hasn't faded from Alvaro's back.

Isco opens his mouth, but it's his turn to be absolutely speechless.

“What am _I_ to you.” Alvaro says, flat. He seemed a stranger from the way he stared straight at Isco, determined and not anything like the Alvaro he thought he knew.

“You. I. I like you.” Isco says, lamely. “I like you a lot.” It wasn't enough, but Isco couldn't give any more.

Alvaro stiffens his shoulders stubbornly.

“Should I go?” He says, not looking at Isco.

“No. Don't you have to leave early tomorrow? Just. Sleep here.” Isco says.

Alvaro waits a beat before saying, careful, “Do you want me to sleep in the other room.”

“No. I can't be fucked to put sheets on the bed. Just sleep here.” Isco says. Alvaro clicks off the light and walks back. Isco feels the bed dip, but Alvaro was curled away from him, back stiff.

Isco sighs, not bothering to muffle it. He missed Alvaro, viscerally, more than the nights when his bed had been empty.

 

-

 

In the middle of the night Isco wakes up, his left arm going numb from Alvaro's weight on it. Alvaro was half on top of him, arm slung across his waist possessively, breathing gently in to Isco's ear. It was endearing, and terrible, and Isco knows if Alvaro woke up like this he would go red, embarrassed for the way that his body betrayed him.

Love was a weird thing. Isco didn't say it much. He said it to his parents, to his brother, to his teammates, jokingly. _I love you, light of my life, my love._ The truth of it was that love was something singularly- difficult. It was easy for Alvaro, who seemed to love with this bizarre simplicity that evaded Isco's comprehension. He kissed the Real Madrid crest and he meant it. Isco on the other hand was still trying to cycle through his past admiration for Barcelona by naming his dog after their player.

Isco didn't know what he loved or if it even mattered. But there was still this- Alvaro's weight against him as he breathed, their bodies pressing line to line. He brushes Alvaro's hair back from his ear, careful. Alvaro doesn't stir, heartbeat steady against Isco's chest. 

  He says it in to the shell of Alvaro's ear, in the end. _A trial run_ , he tells himself. Perhaps next time he can say it when Alvaro's actually there to listen to him, or maybe not. Maybe the distance is the real enemy, not Isco's arrogance and emotional constipation, Alvaro's neediness and Fernando Llorente's dashing good looks. 

  Maybe. Or maybe he can let Alvaro go with the knowledge that it would just be easier, in the long run, for them to stop whatever it was between them now. Isco sighs. He was under no illusions that it would hurt.

  It will be easier, Isco thinks, pushes Alvaro so he rolls away with a sleepy grunt, and curls up with his back to Isco again. It will be better for them both, though it felt like the last thing on earth that he wanted to do. Isco tucks himself around Alvaro, tight like two spoons in a drawer, and presses a kiss to the nape of Alvaro's neck with his eyes shut.

 

-

 

When Isco wakes up the next morning Alvaro was already gone, evidence of him being there only his discarded shirt and jeans in Isco's laundry hamper, the love bites against Isco's ribs, and a memory of his smiling open face in Isco's shower.

Isco blinks at the ceiling, thinking. Real was out of the champions league, and the league title seems unlikely. Before his mind could wander down this tragedy laden path of thought any further, his phone rings on the bedside table.

“I took your shirt and a pair of shorts, by the way.” Alvaro says when he picks up. “I'm already at the airport now.”

“Okay.” Isco says, still only half awake. “Uh. Wash them. Give them back during break.”

“Same with my clothes.” Alvaro says, laughing. Isco hears a mess of voices in the background and wonders, masochistically, if Llorente was there beside Alvaro.

“I'm sorry about last night.” Alvaro says.

Isco wants to ask, _which part,_ but bites his tongue. “Me too. Sorry.”

Alvaro pauses like he hadn't expected this, and here was the moment, if Isco was ever going to do it. Here was his chance, something Isco could do to stop Alvaro from inevitably drifting in to Llorente's tacky Italian embrace. But there was also the memory of Alvaro's goal, beautiful lethal thing, juxtaposing how he turned away with his head hanging. Loving something only meant allowing it the power to hurt you above all reason. He doesn't speak.

“I have to go. I think we're boarding.” Alvaro says, finally.

“Okay.” Isco says, feeling grateful. “Take care.”

A pause and, “Love you.” Alvaro says blithely, “A lot.” He adds, like an afterthought, then hangs up.

As if Isco hadn't known that already. _What a fool_ , Isco thinks, putting down his phone, a spluttering fondness caving in his chest. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> writing Morisco when alvaro's shamelessly commenting on llorente's instagram posts feels very delusional, and ID JUMP SHIP BUT i cannot even enjoy all the sap happening in italy without Isco's bitter voice in my head going "llorente is _tacky_ and i _hate_ him" i love isco and am terribly sorry he is now characterized as a rom com heroine. 
> 
> be bitter with me on [tumblr](http://www.mesutings.tumblr.com) <3


End file.
